


Reborn to Run

by mechanicaljewel



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Dry Humping, Finger Sucking, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mommy Issues, Movie: Skyfall (2012), Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:56:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/pseuds/mechanicaljewel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a most unconventional mission. It becomes a test of how far Bond will go, how long will he pursue Silva...and a question of what he will do when he catches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reborn to Run

**Author's Note:**

> For laurazel for the 2014 00Silva exchange. I tried to fit in as much as you asked for, and future chapters will have still more!

After a month of planning, the likelihood of pulling off Stage 1 (infiltration of the Ugandan president’s inner circle) still seemed slim to none. Q, of all people, was the first to snap.

“Oh for  _fuck’s_  sake! We’ve exhausted all other options, even though we’ve known all along the best way to get this done, just no one wants to be the one to say it!”

It turned out no one else had yet hit upon Q’s “obvious” solution, and he got quiet and fidgety as they all stared him, waiting for him to come out with it. No longer assured of unanimous assent, he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses, keeping his eyes closed to spare himself the looks of horror and anger that were sure to erupt after he said it.

“We send Silva. It’s an old client of his, almost everything we know about this regime comes from his information. Clean him up, send him in there like he’s still got his empire and looking to do some business.”

Unfortunately, Q was right. That was the best plan, if they could get Silva to do it…

“Why _should_ I do this?” Silva asked wearily from his cot in the corner of his cell. He had his back to the wall and his knees drawn to his chest, his brown and silver hair falling messily on his forehead. “I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. You can't make me help you use it.”

Mallory sat in a chair a few feet away from Silva’s cot facing him. “I don’t intend to make you do anything, Mr. Silva,” he said evenly. Mallory was always ridiculously patient with Silva, Bond thought. It was his three months with the IRA, making him empathize too much. “I am asking you. I’m willing to discuss certain reasonable terms with you, certain privileges we may be able to extend you, or…”

Silva laughed bitterly. “What such terms, Mallory? Fewer therapy sessions and more tranquilizers? A privacy curtain for my toilet? And for what? Queen and Country? And he may have heard I died. If he heard it was at the hands of the British Secret Service, his first thought when seeing me would be that I’d taken a deal.  And that’s not even taking into account how barely cordial our association was at the best of times.”

Mallory said, “I have faith that you could convince him of whatever you wanted.” They sat in silence for a minute or so.  Mallory took a deep, meditative breath, then said, “I’ve read your old files. Her reports on your missions.” _Shit_ , Bond thought. This wasn’t going to end well. “If how she wrote about you was her being restrained and professional, well, you must have been quite the agent. Double-oh Seven,” Mallory called. _God no, leave me out of this_. “What did she tell you about Tiago Rodriguez as an agent?”

It took every ounce of willpower to answer that question truthfully. “Brilliant. She said he was brilliant.”

“And when was this?”

“Right after she visited him in his cell in the bunkers.”

“Was this the last thing she said about him to you?”

“Yes.” Bond said. Then, hating himself more with every syllable, he added, “Well, sort of. She also said she’d fucked up.”

Silva was now curled tightly into himself, pressing his eyes into his knees and breathing heavily. A muffled cry emanated from behind his thighs.

“Beg your pardon?” Mallory asked.

Silva threw his head back against the cinderblock wall. “Fine!” He continued to strike his head against the wall while repeating, “Fine. Fine, fine…” in the same rhythm. “I’ll do it. On two conditions.”

“Name them,” Mallory said.

“Bond is my chaperone or what have you.”

“Of course,” Mallory replied, much to Bond’s annoyance, though to be fair he knew he was the most likely candidate from the beginning. “And the other?”

“Will someone finally get me some goddamn hair bleach?”

It took a couple of days for the new plan and arrangements to be made. After one strategy meeting with Silva, just before he left, Bond grabbed his arm and growled into his ear, “If you so much as think about running off, I  _will_  kill you. Given your frankly irritating habit of surviving, I will be  _extremely_  thorough. No matter how far away you might think you get, rest assured I will be right behind you. And I don’t care what Mallory wants, I will  _eviscerate_  you and damn the consequences.”

Silva pulled away just enough to meet Bond’s eyes, an oddly relieved look in his wild eyes. “You promise?”

~     ~     ~

They needed to convince the president that Silva’s organization was still running on some level, and that meant setting up a base of operations in the Seychelles, near one of the casinos Silva once owned. Most of his face-to-face business with the president, Silva informed them, had been there. The idea was that Silva could plausibly respond to most possible rumours of his fate that he had merely gone to ground or quietly retired to his Seychellois beach house (that MI6 rented two days before they left).

The first night there, Bond was awoken at 2:30 in the morning by an unholy yowling coming from Silva’s room. He reflexively grabbed his gun from under his pillow and crept across the suite towards Silva’ room. More sounds, moans and sobs subtler than the noise that had awoken him, emanated from it. Bond frowned slightly in confusion. Any attacker would have silenced him by now. Still, Bond kept his gun raised as he opened the door and stepped in.

Silva was alone and still asleep, writhing and tossing and turning in his sleep, the sheets tangled almost impossibly around him, restricting his limbs. The more he tossed and turned, however, the tighter they got. Sighing, Bond clicked on the safety and strode over to the side of Silva’s bed.

He grasped Silva’s shoulder, which jerked his arm around for a few seconds before he took control and shook Silva vigorously. “Wake up!” he yelled curtly. Silva attempted one last desperate flail before his eyes snapped open and he drew a great, gasping breath.

Silva’s eyes darted around the room as he caught his breath, finally landing on Bond himself. “James! Oh god…oh god…” He squeezed his eyes tight and smiled or grimaced broadly as he laughed or cried. Bond reached out to help untangle him from his sheets, but when Bond’s hands brushed at his hips, Silva yelped and rolled over to the other side of the bed, wrapping himself up even tighter. “Don’t,” he croaked. “Don’t touch me.”

“I was just trying to help,” Bond said with irritation, biting back a comment about Silva’s previous lack of such boundaries.

“I know,” Silva sighed. “I know. At least my mind knows. My body doesn’t. It just needs time to catch up.” He frowned as he stared off into the distance and began working his body free. Bond, not wanting to set off whatever was going on in Silva’s head, took hold of the edge of the sheet and slowly began pulling and tugging at it to help the process along.

Once Silva was free, he lay deflated and kept staring off into the distance. “Why don’t you just kill me now, James? Say he had some old grudge and that the mission was a wash.”

“Because I actually need to attempt this mission. Because there are more important things in the world than whatever the fuck is wrong in your head. Not that I don’t thoroughly endorse the desired end result.”

Silva genuinely laughed. He finally turned his head to look at Bond and grinned. “I knew I could rely on you.” Then his face fell and his brow knitted. “Maybe you could still work this mission if I was dead.” He paused. “Bring him my head. That should either delight or terrify him. Maybe both. Either way, you should be able to get him to do whatever you need him to do.”

“Jesus! I’m going to bed, and to try to forget this whole conversation.” He turned to leave, but stopped when Silva let out a sharp guttural noise. “What?”

“Can you just…stay for a bit? We can talk about something else. Or not at all. I just can’t be alone right now.”

Considering the possibility that Silva might decide to wrap the sheet around his neck next, and remembering his own words why that would not be wise to allow, he snorted but nonetheless flopped on to the bed on top of the sheet. Silva rolled on to his side to look at him.

For nearly a half-hour they both alternated dozing off then opening their eyes to check on each other, Silva to make sure Bond was still there, Bond to make sure Silva hadn’t slipped off to kill himself. Eventually, Bond opened his eyes to see Silva staring at his chest with a softened gaze.

“I wish I could find you in my bed under better circumstances,” Silva murmured.

“And now that I know your mind’s not on whatever nightmares you were having, I’m going back to my own room.”

“Of course I’m still thinking about my nightmares, what circumstances did you think I was referring to?”

“The circumstances where I hate you for…everything,” Bond retorted.

“That precludes nothing that I would want you in my bed for. Not necessarily, anyway,” Silva replied. He glanced back down at Bond’s chest and said listlessly, “Even your scars just add to your sex appeal. Tell me James, do women—” he cut himself off and shook his head. “Never mind. But they’ll still fuck you with the lights on, I’m sure.” Bond stayed silent, treating the inquisitive statement as rhetorical. “It is quite the paradox, James, to figure out how to see your lovers without them seeing you. That’s why I had to start paying.”

Bond didn’t want to encourage him, but his own curiosity got the better of him. “What are you on about?”

Silva pursed his lips for a few moments, before finally answering, “After China, I couldn’t be with anyone if I couldn’t see them clearly the whole time. I needed to know who they were, who was touching me. But if they could see me clearly, well…they wouldn’t want me. I couldn’t even take them from behind, I had to see their faces. So I found those I could pay well enough for them to not see.”

“Not see what?”

Silva rolled his eyes. “Scars, James. We’re talking about scars.”

"Occupational hazard. Nothing more," Bond asserted.

"Mummy's good soldier as always, hm?"

"That's what we are. In case you've forgotten, the M in MI6 stands for military."

"Maybe if I had actually been military, I could have withstood it."

"We got the same training."

"And when that accountant was tenderizing your balls, James, how much did it help?"

"Fuck all," Bond answered. "But I still didn't give in. Not even when he threatened to feed me my own cock."

"Le Chiffre was one desperate man whose time was running out—did run out while he had you, no? He couldn't _enjoy_ it the way my jailers did, couldn't draw it out. No time to starve you to the point where cutting off your cock yourself and eating didn't seem like such a bad idea. No time to feed you  _his_  cock," Silva's voice shook and grew raspier with every word, defiantly holding back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. "Could you have withstood  _that_ , James? Lived through the days when you felt  _relieved_  that his cock was the only thing he'd shoved inside you? Or the days when he only damaged your outsides feeling like Christmas?” he seethed. “But _I didn’t give in either_. Would _you_ still have held on to your secrets even after realizing She had betrayed you, abandoning you to your fate at his hands? Would you still rather die than tell Her secrets, after all of that?”

Bond sat silently for a few moments, then sat up and reached over Silva to switch on his bedside lamp. Still on top of the sheets, he swung a leg over Silva’s to straddle his thighs. With a glare and a smirk, Bond reached down and began unbuttoning his pyjama top, roughly pushing it open. His eyes went wide and a gasp caught in his throat.

To say the least, Silva had not been exaggerating. He may even have been understating the extent and variety of tortures done to him. Bond reached out his right hand and traced the path of every slice, every burn—fire and electrical—and abrasion, the outline of every scald and acid stain. Silva squeezed his eyes tightly, avoiding seeing Bond’s expression at all costs.

“Hey,” Bond tapped Silva’s temple with his left hand. “You need to see me, yeah?”

Silva opened his eyes in shock. He murmured, “I _want_ to see you. But you want to see me?”

“Yeah. Regardless of what came after, these—” Bond ran both palms up and down Silva’s chest “—mark you as possibly the baddest motherfucker I’ve ever met.” A sharp, bright laugh burst from Silva’s mouth. When he met Bond’s gaze, Bond licked his lips, flashed him a wicked grin, and dropped his head to Silva’s chest.

Massaging a thick squarish scar on Silva left pec (cattle prod, Bond assumed) with his lips, Bond drew a pleasured moan from Silva’s throat. As he continued to work his lips, tongue, and hands over Silva’s scars, Silva grew quietly frantic. His hips gyrated but only occasionally met some part of Bond. He finally worked one leg free and hooked it behind Bond’s back, pressing him down for the delicious friction of rubbing their clothed groins together. Both men began rutting against each other in earnest.

“God, what are we, teenagers?” Bond teased between grunts.

“Fuck you, James,” Silva groaned. “It’s been— _MMM_ —two _years_ for me.” He reached down to slide under the waistband of Bond’s boxers and grabbed his arse with both hands, kneading the perfectly-toned muscles with his fingers and manoeuvring their growing bulges closer together. “Fuck, I’m not going to last, I don’t _want_ to last, I need this _so_ badly, James…”

Without missing a beat, Bond pulled down both their pants with one hand and pulled out their cocks. Rolling onto their sides, they entwined their legs and continued rubbing their now bare cocks against each other. Bond reached up one hand and slid two fingers into Silva’s mouth. Silva sucked them hungrily while generously coating them with saliva. He moaned with anticipation when Bond slipped in two more fingers and was soon laving Bond’s palm with his tongue.

Bond then withdrew his hand and made quick work of coating the insides of Silva’s thighs with his saliva. Silva laughed as he caught on what they were doing and presented Bond with his own palm to lick.

Tucking their cocks between the other’s thighs and squeezing them tight together, they were soon thrusting uncontrollably between each other. Silva, unsurprisingly, came first, moaning into Bond’s neck. He was still nuzzling and kissing Bond’s throat when he came soon after. Bond stifled his vocalization by catching Silva’s lips with his own and kissing him deeply until the last waves of his climax subsided.

They lay sated, still more or less entwined for a few minutes, Silva lazily kissing whatever part of Bond he could reach with his rapidly fading energy. Both were soon asleep.

~     ~     ~

If Bond noted a boost in Silva’s confidence for the mission, he refrained from taking credit for it. The rest of the mission went terribly off course, naturally, but their combined skills salvaged what they could spectacularly. At least, as spectacularly as one could call a mission that ended with a presumed-dead terrorist/rogue agent dragging a half-conscious active-duty agent out of a burning building, tucking a flash drive into the agent’s breast pocket, then vanishing from the scene after the agent passed out entirely. 

A week later, while Bond was still in hospital, he received a postcard. The picture was of a giant stone Buddha on a hill. The caption said “Po Lin Monastery”, and the postmark indicated that it came from Hong Kong. All it said was: 

> _You promised_.

Bond slid it into one of his books and put it at the bottom of the pile.

Mallory checked in on him later in the day and said they still had no leads on Silva. Bond said nothing.


End file.
